


Conversion

by chainsaw_poet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Rugby, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-12
Updated: 2010-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-13 15:50:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chainsaw_poet/pseuds/chainsaw_poet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt at sherlockbbc_fic, which asked for a fic with John playing rugby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversion

The interrogation began when Sherlock noticed a muddy pair of studded boots that were neatly positioned on newspaper in a corner of the kitchen. He held them up by the laces, scattering dried mud over the floor that John had just hoovered, and looked at John disparagingly. Silently, John marvelled at the fact that, even in a flat as chaotic as theirs, Sherlock still managed to notice the new arrival of an innocuous item.

“They’re rugby boots,” John said, pre-empting the question. Then, thinking of the kind of educational establishments in which Sherlock was surely placed, he added, “You must have played rugby at school?”

“As seldom as I possibly could,” Sherlock replied darkly. “Instead, I chose to invest in a standard encyclopaedia of medicine and hone my forgery skills. But yes, I know they are rugby boots. Size nine by the looks of them, which means they are yours. I am questioning why they’re covered in mud and on our kitchen floor.”

“Because I used them yesterday evening,” John said. “Mike Stamford took me to the pub last week and we met this friend of his who plays for a Sunday League team in Brent. Mike mentioned that I used to play on the wing for Blackheath Seconds and he got quite excited and invited me along to train with them. So I went along last night. It was brilliant, actually.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, just because you don’t enjoy it…”

“Please explain to me exactly what is enjoyable about getting covered in mud whilst having the wind knocked out of you by some thug with cauliflower ears…”

“No,” John interrupted. “Not thugs. Football is a game for gentlemen, played by thugs. Rugby is a game for thugs played by gentleman.” He moved to snatch the boots from Sherlock, who held them just out of his reach.

“It’s a game which allows gentlemen a socially sanctioned way to engage in thinly veiled homoeroticism,” Sherlock countered. “And you don’t need that.” He leaned over and kissed John. John allowed his lips to linger on Sherlock’s for a few moments, and then took the opportunity to wrangle the boots from his grip.

“I do need these,” John mumbled, mostly into Sherlock’s lips. “They’ve offered me a game on Sunday.” Sherlock pulled away and looked at John incredulously.

“You’re planning on playing a competitive game of a full contact sport when you took a bullet to the shoulder less than eighteen months ago.”

“Says the man who dragged me on a chase through a mile of pitch-black disused underground tunnels yesterday.”

“Yes, but that was fun.”

“Rugby is fun,” John said, a steely edge creeping into his voice. “And it can’t be as dangerous as living with you.” He fetched a knife from the kitchen draw and, kneeling over the newspaper, began to chip the dried mud away from his studs. Sherlock peered at some bacteria he was cultivating in an amputated finger, trying to ignore the annoying scraping sound that John was making and then, quite suddenly, not making. Sherlock glanced up to see John standing at the edge of the table.

“You should come and watch,” John said. Sherlock scoffed and turned back to the experiment. “I’m serious,” John continued. “You might like it.”

“I won’t like it.”

“I’d like it. If you came, I mean. I’d like it if you came.” Sherlock slumped forward, resting his chin on the palm of hi hand. He looked plaintively up at John.

“I’ll be so bored. Can’t you ask Lestrade? He probably likes sport.”

“He likes football. Entirely different game. First thing my father taught me was never play with a round ball.” John wandered behind Sherlock and began to run his hands through dark curls, entwining them around his fingers. “Please. It’s a couple of hours on a Sunday. There might even be a case for you to solve.”

“Now why didn’t I think of that? Perhaps a complex match-fixing scam run by a Middle-Eastern syndicate with an inexplicable interest in Sunday League rugby?”

“Or it might give you a way out of having lunch with Mycroft on Sunday. He left a message on my phone asking why you hadn’t called to confirm it.” Sherlock swore under his breath and then leant back into John.

“All right. But only once.”

 

Standing outside in the freezing cold at 11am, Sherlock asked himself whether lunch with Mycroft might be a less tortuous way to spend a Sunday. At least it would be warm inside his club. Besides, standing on an icy touchline and staring at a field of rugby players brought back far too many memories of school. He’d spent most of the games lessons that he couldn’t talk his way out of in exactly this position, hoping that no one would be stupid enough to try to pass the ball to him and wondering whether he could slip off unnoticed for a cigarette. He would kill for a cigarette right now, in fact.

The only consolation was that John looked rather handsome in Brent’s red and gold shirt and white shorts and that, to Sherlock’s untrained eye at least, he was a more than decent player. He was quicker than the other men on the pitch, a skill that Sherlock attributed to John having spent the last few months chasing down some of London’s less savoury elements. He seemed to be able to sidestep most of the forwards that threw themselves at him, and to spin the ball so that his passes had a level of accuracy that eluded most of the other players. Clearly, he’d once been quite good.

The downside of his engagement with John’s playing was that it was hard to keep from flinching whenever he saw John swallowed up at the bottom of a ruck. He remembered the other hateful aspect of rugby, the sickening sound of the scrum locking together and the occasional crunch as some unfortunate boy had his radius or ulna snapped by a bulky flanker who had hit puberty a year early than himself. Having thrust his hands in the pockets of his coat to keep them warm, Sherlock found that he was gripping the lining of his coat tightly.

The other problem with being so intently focused on John’s playing was that, despite his best intentions of remaining an aloof observer, Sherlock found himself being drawn into the game. The teams were reasonably evenly matched; both had got themselves on the scoreboard through being awarded penalty kicks but, as the first half drew to a close, neither had managed to score a try. With less than ten minutes left to play, a dubious piece of play by the blue-shirted opposition finally got the better of his resolve.

“That was clearly knocked-on!” he said to himself, a little too sharply. “The referee must be blind.”

“So it is you!” said a voice from behind him. Sherlock looked over his left shoulder to see Mike Stamford standing with a can of lager in his left hand. “I wouldn’t have thought you knew what was going on,” he added gesturing to the pitch.

“I spent six years at a boys’ prep school, then another five at boarding school, then three years at Cambridge,” Sherlock replied tersely. “It would be nothing short of miraculous if I didn’t know the rules of rugby.” Mike shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly.

“All the same, I didn’t have you down for the rugby type. Not like John, of course. He spent every spare moment at Blackheath when we were students. Pretty good, isn’t he?” Sherlock nodded, not taking his eyes off John, who was himself fixated on their fly-half kicking the ball into touch. “Used to play a bit myself – loosehead prop - until I threw my back out in a scrum a few years ago. I’m still a member here; mostly for the cheap beer.”

“You’re distracting me,” Sherlock said bluntly. Fortunately, perhaps, Mike didn’t have a chance to register the comment because the small crowd had started yelling. From the line out, Brent had managed to quickly get the ball up to the try line and, seconds later, Sherlock saw John come from nowhere to fling himself between the posts with the ball clasped tightly to his chest. Then, also from nowhere, Sherlock found himself yelling the same unintelligible sounds as the rest of the supporters. And even though he used the time that the fly-half took to set up the conversion to remind himself that it was ridiculous to get excited over a game, he couldn’t help but smile as the ball sailed between the posts for two points.

The whistle for half time blew shortly after that. Having been clapped on the shoulder by several of his team mates, John jogged over to Sherlock with plastic cup of squash in one hand and his gum-shield in the other. His hair was tousled, and there was a streak of dirt across his left cheek and a broad grin on his face.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said. Sherlock pulled his coat more tightly around himself and said nothing. “Come on, Sherlock! I know you’re enjoying it. I can see you.”

“You should concentrate on the game,” Sherlock said flatly.

“You were cheering, Sherlock.” Again, silence. “All right, don’t admit it. But I’m glad you came.” With that, he jogged back towards his team, who were huddled round in an intense discussion of tactics. Most of which, Sherlock though as he observed them, seemed to involve passing the ball to John. With a wry smile, Sherlock decided that the awful taste which would inevitable pervade the tea they were selling from the porch of the pavilion was probably still outweighed by the benefits of a warm drink.

The second half of the match was much more dynamic than the first. Spurred on by their first half try, Brent seemed renewed with a desire to do nothing but attack, and were rewarded with a second try at seven minutes into the half. The new tactics revealed their drawbacks when the visiting team managed a quick break and scored a try ten minutes later. But they too let excitement get the better of them and John’s fellow winger managed to scramble the ball over the line six minutes from the final whistle, effectively sealing victory by twenty-four points to thirteen.

Sherlock had really tried not to get excited, but it was difficult with people around him yelling out encouragement to the players, who themselves seemed delighted with the progression of the game. From the snippets of conversation around him, Sherlock quickly understood that this was considered to be Brent’s best performance of the season by some distance. Most of their rapid improvement was credited to the hitherto unknown winger, and much of the discussion revolved around rumours that he was “ex-Army” and had “had a few starts for Blackheath some years back”. Sherlock kept his mouth shut and took secret pleasure in hearing them cheer louder whenever John had the ball. And if he joined in with the cheering at Brent’s second and third tries, well, one had to try to blend in with the crown in this kind of situation.

But the smile than he allowed himself when John jogged over to meet him after shaking hands with the opposing side at the end of the match quickly faded when he saw how stiffly John was holding his injured shoulder.

“Sherlock, did you see that last try? It was brilliant. I didn’t think Kevin would be able to outrun their number eight but the guy went for the tackle too early and…”

“You’re hurt.” It wasn’t a question.

“Oh, this? Its nothing. I took a bit of a knock in that ruck a few minutes back. Just jolted it a bit, that’s all.” Sherlock reached over and grabbed John’s shoulder, and he winced in pain. “God, did you really have to do that?” John yelped, rubbing at the joint. “I’ve just pulled a muscle; that’s all, I promise. You don’t have to worry.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Sherlock replied quickly, biting on his lower lip. “Congratulations, by the way. Apparently, you were quite the man of the match.” It was John’s turn to look vaguely embarrassed.

“I’m not sure about that. But I’m glad we won. I’ll just shower and then we can…?” John leaned his head towards the exit to the ground and Sherlock nodded. “Great. Give me five minutes.” John moved to pat Sherlock on the arm and was surprised when the other man took a large and hasty step backwards. “Oh, yeah. Forgot about the mud. Sorry.”

 

Strained shoulders might not qualify as serious injuries but they did bloody well hurt, John decided. He lay back in the bath tub, having being driven there by the stiffness in his shoulder and the prospect of another episode of Top Gear on Dave. He closed his eyes and sighed as the hot water lapped over his injured arm, drawing the gnawing pain from his shoulder. Running about London with Sherlock might have kept him fit, but even the worst encounters with criminals didn’t really prepare you for sixteen stones of determined defender resorting to any tactic possible to get the ball from you. This was the part of the game that he hadn’t missed; the inevitable aches that crept up after a match had finished.

He heard the bathroom door yawn open and then click as the latch shut again. Tentatively opening one eye, John saw Sherlock curled up on the towels that John had lain out ready on the wicker chair that stood in the corner of the room. He was flicking through pages in a brown cardboard file, eyes skimming over the pages. A stamp on the corned of the file read ‘Metropolitan Police: Confidential’.

“Did you ask Lestrade if you could take that?” John asked, already knowing the answer.

“Not in so many words,” Sherlock drawled, closing the file. “It’s boring anyway; everyone involved in the case is almost certainly dead. I didn’t realise it was the murderer of two octogenarians in an isolated nursing home that took place in 1991.” He looked up and was met with John’s judgemental snare. “You know I’ll put it back next time we’re there. Lestrade will never even realise it was gone.”

“Not entirely the point though.” John closed his eyes again.

There was a silence, during which John was taken with the sense that he was being watched. And, simultaneously, aware of a dawning realisation that a boring case-file that was so obviously stolen from New Scotland Yard was probably just a prop to make John start talking. He opened his eyes again, and stared back at Sherlock.

“Do you miss it?” Sherlock asked, suddenly.

“Miss what?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was looking almost anywhere else. “The camaraderie. The jokes. The cheap beer. The victory celebrations. The tours. The mud – I don’t know!” He inhaled sharply. “I never did that sort of thing, so I don’t know.” John sat up and leant an elbow on the scrolled edge of the bath.

“Honestly?” Sherlock nodded. “Yes, sometimes I think I do. I had school, and then the rugby team, and then the army – and now I don’t have that. I mean, today was fun. Really good fun.” It was John’s turn to take a deep breath. “But if you’d sent me a text saying that you were the other side of London and that it could be dangerous, I’d have been off that pitch like a shot.”

“Well. Good.” Sherlock muttered, before adding, “Training for two hours on Thursday evenings, right?"

"Right."

"And the season runs from September to April?”

“Yeah, roughly. And I probably won’t be playing every Sunday. Not sure the shoulder can take that much just yet.”

“Still hurts?”

“A little bit sore. Just stiff mostly.” Sherlock tossed the folder to one side and perched himself on the edge of the bath tub.

“Here, let me…” Leaning behind John, Sherlock began to knead his thumbs into John’s scapula. “How’s that?” John smiled.

“Better,” he said, softly.


End file.
